


The King and I

by gimmefire



Category: Green Day
Genre: Burns, Fingerfucking, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-01
Updated: 2007-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's only right then that it hits me that Billie Joe is touching my ass. Like, </i>softly<i>. And it's weird, y'know, because of who he is and because a little while ago he was pressing a makeshift red hot branding iron to my asscheek.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The King and I

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the Pop Disaster tour with Blink 182, specifically the night of June 7th in Toronto, Canada – just after the infamous branding incident, viewable [here](http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=SJWU1NmugVA). (Can you see where this is going?) From Chris's POV, so there's a fair sprinkling of 'like's and 'y'know's throughout.

This fucking hurts. It fucking hurts a fucking _lot_. Not as much as it did, like, half an hour ago, but fucking hell, the painkillers haven’t kicked in yet and the dull stinging just won’t stop or fade or fucking anything. So all’s I can do right now is lie in this fucking awkward-ass position, hugging this hoodie and this pillow, my once perfect ass hanging out for all the world to see and pretend it doesn’t fucking hurt a fucking lot. Not admit it out loud, at least.

Not with Billie Joe Armstrong in earshot, flicking water off his hands and being handed a tube of Neosporin. I can’t, I fucking _cannot_ let him think I’m a pussy when he’s putting Neosporin on my ass. Not the King of Punk Rock, hell no. I kind of wish the camera would go away, though - it’s right there and bearing down on me, and shit, Billie Joe fucking Armstrong is kneeling down next to my presented ass. Did I mention that it used to be perfect? It fucking did. I had a good ass, a nice ass. Now the skin on my right cheek is blackened to fuck and peeling off and did I also mention that it hurts?

But seriously, what the hell would you have done in my situation? If Billie Joe fucking Armstrong from fucking Green Day had been stood right there in front of you, brandishing this fucking pool cue thing with this _look_ in his eyes asking if he could brand you. Not even really asking, more like coercing you because he pretty much already knows you’ll do it. Because he’s Billie Joe, he’s the King of Punk Rock. You’ll do whatever the hell he wants you to do.

I would, anyhow.

I’m half laughing into the hoodie-pillow in my arms, trying not to think about how the nasty rough carpet tiles in here are scratching my stomach where my pants are hitched down so low, and everybody else is half laughing around me. Except Billie, he’s just smiling sympathetically - I think it’s sympathetically - and squirting out a big blob of that Neosporin on his fingertips. I’m actually pretty fucking glad he’s doing this instead of one of the other guys. Much as I think they’re all regretting this at least a little bit, I think I trust Billie more to not fucking, I don’t know, smack my ass. He’s done it before, sure, but right now? No fucking thank you.

Fucking Jesus, my ass hurts bad enough that I kind of want to cry.

I’m curling my fingers into the hoodie and setting my teeth in my bottom lip when I hear Billie speak.

“Could you move onto your side? It’ll make the burn a little easier for me to see, is all.”

“Um, right,” I mutter, doing as he says even though it hurts like shit to move. See? Whatever the hell he wants you to do, I’m telling you.

So he’s got this blob of Neosporin on his fingers and he bends down close, really having a good fucking look at the peeling skin and red and black flesh. At least it’s on my ass and not somewhere where I’d have to look at it every day for the rest of tour. Billie seems like he’s real interested in committing the burn to memory, feels like he’s taking fucking forever. The guys are still laughing, but they do sound a little remorseful. I guess. I don’t think Brian’s stopped shaking his head since this whole thing started.

“Alrighty,” I hear Billie say, and I can’t help but tense up. I’d be really happy if nothing ever touched my ass again, and after the Neosporin comes the bandage, so it’s just gonna get fucking worse before it gets--

I cannot fucking _believe_ how cold that shit is. I tense up and curl my toes, this big physical shockwave going through every bit of me at just how goddamn cold that gel shit is. But it doesn’t hurt! What the fuck, maybe the King of Punk Rock has got the Midas touch or something. No, wait, Midas would turn my ass to gold, which would be pretty awesome but I mean, like...I don’t know, Florence Nightingale touch, or whatever? Who gives a shit, it doesn’t hurt. Halle-fuckin’-lujah.

It’s only right then that it hits me that Billie Joe is touching my ass. Like, _softly_. And it’s weird, y’know, because of who he is and because a little while ago he was pressing a makeshift red hot branding iron to my asscheek. If I take nothing else away from this tour, I’ll still have these fucking second degree burns and a scar. Better than a t-shirt, right?

But what’s also weird is that it’s not really weird, like, I’m kind of embarrassed so I think that’s why I’m blushing, but it’s not _out there_ weird. Maybe it’s because I’ve listened to his music and followed his career for so many years it’s like it’s an honour to have him...touching my ass.

Shit, maybe I’m high.

I crane my neck over my shoulder and he’s kneeling there daubing the Neosporin on every bit of the burn, then rubbing it in really gently.

“Put some Neosporin inside the crack,” Tom suggests really fuckin’ helpfully. For a second I feel this weird pang of dread in my chest, then fuck, I’m blushing deeper. The guys are laughing again and Billie’s grinning. He doesn’t do it, though, and that’s awesome because I really don’t wanna accidentally get a boner.

What? C’mon, it’s Billie Joe Armstrong! Touching my ass! What the fuck do you think is gonna happen?

Shit, it’s actually starting to feel like he’s _massaging_ my asscheek. Shit shit shit. Don’t think about it. Fuck, don’t _concentrate_ on it!

He laughs a little bit, like, in awe or something. “Dude, you got the fuckin’ gnarliest dingleberry right here.” My face is still really hot, and I chuckle. I’m actually starting to feel pretty proud of my mark.

Most of the guys are filtering away or losing interest, thank fuck. The ‘all eyes on me’ thing was getting kinda unnerving. I feel Billie’s hand move away and I start to turn my head to thank him, but then, oh fuck, _then_ he takes his middle finger, still all shiny with the Neosporin, and runs his fingertip all the way down the crack of my ass, all the fucking way down and between my legs until I just feel it graze against my balls. I gasp and my legs slam tight together in instinctive reaction to the ticklish touch. I think I’m pretty much beetroot colour by now, and my head snaps around to stare at Billie Joe. I do my damned best to cover the shock on my face with a laugh, but it comes out as this shaky, uncertain titter. I didn’t even think I _could_ titter.

Billie looks back at me with the same expression on his face as he had when he asked if he could brand me. Only now I’m reading a whole lot more into it.

No-one says a damn thing. I only hope it’s because nobody saw.

 

Once Billie leaves, I pretty much lose all enthusiasm for partying, at least for that night, and I can still feel Billie’s hand on me and it’s fucking with me a bit. The tour buses are still sticking around for a couple hours, so since everyone else is still hanging out and fucking around, I take my sorry ass back to our van and slump down in the back with a beer. I awkwardly hitch my pants down - awkwardly because I’m on my side, the only position I can get in where my ass isn’t touching anything and I can still fit in the van - and settle as comfortably as possible. Which isn’t very comfortable.

Am I coming off as whiny? Shit, I’m sorry. It really isn’t that bad, I guess I’m just feeling all self-pitying. Me and my poor once perfect ass.

I have to resist picking at the medical tape holding down the burn dressing - which feels really fucking good, by the way - because it feels all tight on my skin and it’s making me itch. So I’m lying there scratching around the dressing, trying to swig my beer while propping myself up on my elbow, curled around in an awkward half-circle, pants around my thighs and feeling pretty fucking pathetic and sorry for myself.

 _Then_ there’s a goddamn knock at the van’s sliding door. I’m not moving for any fucker. I left any dignity I had seared to the end of a snooker rest.

“ _Whaaat?_ ” Oh fuck, _that_ was whiny.

“It’s Billie Joe, can I come in?”

Oh _fuck_. I can’t decide if that’s residual shock or sudden nervousness that’s just shot through my body. Okay. Be cool. “Sure, there’s not much room--”

There’s a clunk and the side door swooshes open, and right away Billie wrinkles his nose. “Oh God, you never forget that five-guys-in-a-van smell.” It doesn’t deter him at all, and he doesn’t even seem to notice that my pants are down in his presence for like the third time today. He climbs right in and shuts the door behind him, all smiles, beer in hand. “Pot and feet and stale chips and body odour and fuck knows what else...” He trails off and stops in his tracks, hunched over to keep from smacking his head as he steps over me. Finally he’s noticed the pants around the thighs, and his eyes go wide. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I wasn’t, y’know, interrupting anything was I?”

Leave it to me to just fucking blink stupidly up at him for a good few seconds. I blame the meds. Amazingly when it does click my face doesn’t glow brighter than a Christmas tree. “Oh! Fuck no, I’m-I’m just trying to, uh, air it out. I think. Or something.”

Billie laughs and I relax a little bit. He has this phenomenal ability to make you feel at ease real fast, and a big part of that is not walking around the place like he’s the big I Am. Which, and don’t fucking tell Tom this because he and Green Day have kind of a bad thing going, I gotta admit that he kinda is. Like, at least in terms of legacy or whatever, it’s Green Day, y’know? Green-fucking-Day, I must’ve been listening to them for going on ten years. He’s given so many kids the inspiration to pick up a guitar and be in a band and shit. You’ve gotta at least credit him with being, like, a pioneer of our scene. But the first day of this tour, he and the other guys all came in and shot the shit, had some drinks with us, and made me and my guys feel really welcome. They didn’t have to do that, but they did because they’re real nice guys, down to earth and friendly.

I half-heartedly attempt to cover up my crotch - half-heartedly because, like I said, the ability to make you feel at ease fast - and shift around so’s he can sit down and at least try and get comfortable.

Lemme paint you a picture right now of how we’re positioned. I’m on my side in this kinda spoon shape, ass hanging out, and Billie Joe Armstrong is sitting down, hugging his knees in the space above my legs - meaning that he’s, like, directly opposite my cock. All that’s between it and him are my hand and a couple inches of space. That thought triggers a spark of nerves in me, but it passes when Billie starts to talk and I have to concentrate.

“How’s it feeling?” He indicates to my ass with his bottle. I don’t meet his eyes and shrug with one shoulder.

“S’pretty much fine now,” I lie fuckin’ transparently. Cuz, y’know, I want him to think I’m hardcore. Jesus. I feel him looking at me all skeptical and I mumble, “Painkillers and Neosporin are helping. Thanks for, like, obliging with that. I didn’t really wanna trust anyone else to come anywhere fuckin’ near me.”

“Fuck, man, it’s the least I could do,” Billie replies, wincing apologetically. His eyes shift to my ass - I think he’s trying to see the burn dressing, but I’m at the wrong angle for it - while he swigs his beer, and they don’t move away when he speaks again. “I think the guys feel really bad about it, whether they’re ever gonna say so or not. I know _I_ feel really bad.” He finally looks back to me. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, just name it.”

I wave him off, kinda hoping that he can’t see me blushing. Fuck, Billie Joe Armstrong, at my service? A burnt ass doesn’t warrant that, surely?

He speaks again. “Seriously, Chris.” I meet his gaze, surprised by his tone, and he’s looking at me with these fuckin’ intense hazel eyes. For the first time I feel unnerved in his presence. “I wanna make it up to you.”

My mouth moves but sounds don’t come out. I think I’m blushing harder, but it’s pretty dark in the van what with the only light filtering in from the parking lot lights outside, so I don’t think Billie can tell all that well. I shrug hopelessly and change the subject after acknowledging Billie’s offer, and he actually looks a little bit crestfallen. I don’t even fucking know why, and now I feel _really_ unnerved.

I can’t be getting the signals I think I’m getting, I just can’t. It’s too…just, _fuck_ , y’know? On top of the dulled pain and sluggishness swirling around in my bloodstream, I just can’t fuckin’ deal with thoughts like that right now. I don’t have the brain capacity. I barely did before.

We talk about meaningless shit for a while, asking how our respective shows went, he recounts stories from back in the day of smoking pot and pretending to be Superman, I recount stories from last week about smoking pot and believing we were all Spiderman, and it’s all really cool and chilled out. We haven’t really had the chance to talk, just me and Billie, before now. It’s nice. At least right here I can be more of a fanboy without the other guys ripping on me for it. I mean I’m not, like, out and out asslicking, but y’know.

My leg’s gone to sleep and it’s making me wince, enough that Billie’s giving me a concerned look. I smile ruefully and try to shift my position in a dignified (maybe) manner, but it doesn’t work and I wriggle over onto my stomach, wincing even more. So yeah, at least Billie can see the burn dressing now.

We talk some more and I start becoming really aware that Billie’s eyes keep drifting over to my ass, and that he’s really not being so subtle about it. I’m sure it would fuck with my head a lot more if I wasn’t medicated, but for now I just don’t acknowledge it and concentrate on...not concentrating on it.

The conversation sort of dies, and while I’m staring hard at my beer trying to think of something halfway witty or intelligent to say, Billie clears his throat and says something in this tentative voice I’ve never heard him use before. Then what he actually says makes me forget all about that.

“Look, um. You just outright tell me to fuck off if you want, but while there’s some peace and quiet I wanna do something for you, maybe something that’ll take your mind off the burn. I honestly do wanna make it up to you. Not to sound creepy or anything, but if you trust me,” he pauses and looks like he’s searching for the right words somewhere on the floor of the van. I get the balls to look him in the face and his voice drops when he speaks again. “If you just trust me, I’d like to.”

The way he says that last part makes it sound like there’s an end to his sentence, but it never comes. This weird thrill goes through my body and I look down, losing my confidence for a couple of seconds, and it’s right then that I hear him moving. I still don’t look up, don’t feel like I can as I hear him getting closer to me right until he’s right by my head. I get enough of a moment to see that Billie has shifted to lie on his side, like I was before, and he’s looking at me and then, oh fucking then, he moves right in close and he’s kissing me. _Kissing me._

The first thing I’m aware of outside of the kiss itself is that my scalp feels tight. I think it might be because my whole face is registering the surprise I’m feeling. And it’s not like ones I’ve had with him before, not some brief little peck on the lips, hell no. His mouth is moving against mine and holy shit I think he just licked at my bottom lip, not like a cat or something, not at all, it’s all shy and appealing and fuck fuck fuck my brain is melting the fuck down, I _was_ getting those signals, unless he’s fucking with me right now, oh God, is he fucking with me?

Billie’s kissing me. Billie Joe fucking Armstrong is kissing me right on the lips, I’m kissing him, our tongues are, like, _touching_ and _together_ and when the fuck did I slip into this medication induced hallucination? In a second there’ll be a voice off in the distance, Billie calling my name all confused, and then I’ll snap out of it and I’ll just be lying there with my tongue out in mid air. You’ll see.

Billie’s hand is on the small of my back, rubbing back and forth. I can practically fucking feel the touch on my dick.

I hear myself whimper, and Billie seems to take that as a hint. He pulls away, just enough for me to feel bereft (all he did was fucking kiss me, and I’m feeling bereft? The guy is, like, a magician).

“You okay?” he murmurs. Okay, he says. I can feel his breath on my lips. I’m in fucking space right now. I manage to huff out this laugh, meant to show that ha ha, okay, big laugh at the guy whose crush on Billie Joe must be obvious, now the guys and the cameraman can yank open the van door and really get an eyeful of this Kodak moment. Billie doesn’t say anything; he just smiles a little bit, not enough to make me think optimistically.

So I just lie there straining my ears for badly stifled giggles and laughter exploding into hands. But I can’t hear it. Just to be sure... “Are the guys outside?” I whisper, hoping somewhere in my head that I look like a cute puppy that no-one would want to play a mean trick on. Billie blinks, and there’s silence for a couple seconds while we both listen.

I can still feel his breath on my lips, I can hear him breathing. I can smell him, his breath, his skin, the product in his hair – there’s like an inch between our mouths and I’m silently screaming that there better not be anyone hiding outside the van. I think my libido is holding its breath.

Nothing. There’s not a fucking sound outside this van but for one car pulling out of the parking lot. I find myself looking at Billie’s lips when I start speaking.

“W-was that what--?”

“No,” Billie interrupts quietly. “More. If you want it.”

I stare and I fuckin’ stare some more at him. _If I fucking want it?_ Okay, I’ll level with you, I do have a crush on this guy, but it’s not to the point where I’m, like, jerking off to the thought of him every night. I have a girlfriend, I’d say I’m 95% straight and totally comfortable with fucking around in a pretty gay way with the other guys. But see, there’s this crush, and it’s more like a crush you have on someone you idolise for what he’s achieved, y’know? He’s up on a pedestal and I thank my lucky stars that I get to even hang out with him after shows. I’m totally a fanboy with a crush, yeah.

Right now he’s asking me...what the hell is he asking me? More if I want it?

What’s not supposed to happen with a crush on a rock star is what I think is happening right now. The affection is _not_ supposed to be returned.

I remember what he said a couple minutes ago. _I wanna do something for you, maybe something that’ll take your mind off the burn. I honestly do wanna make it up to you. If you just trust me, I’d like to._

“You want me to trust you, right?”

I can see a bit of earnestness appear in his eyes because I’m so damn close to him. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

Remember what I said earlier? He’s the King of Punk Rock and you’ll do whatever the hell he wants you to do.

Yeah.

I laugh again. “As long as you don’t brand my other asscheek.”

Billie grins at that, and the air seems to get a whole lot less tense. “No problem,” he assures as he moves in to kiss me again. Yeah, I’m making out with Billie Joe Armstrong; starting to feel less overwhelmed and more awesome about it. I’m even getting up enough confidence to reach up and rub at his shoulder, my hand pushing under his jacket. He’s warm. Holy fuck.

When he breaks off the kiss this time, I manage to get a sentence and a half out. He’s a good kisser and I’m still a little discombobulated by this whole thing, so, y’know. “What are we—What are we gonna...do?”

He starts moving down my body, not getting undressed, not undressing me – is this gonna be one of those quick and sleazy fucks, is he just gonna drop his pants enough to get his cock out? Holy _fuck_ , is Billie Joe Armstrong gonna take my ass virginity?!

“I’m not gonna get into a whole lot of foreplay, you understand that, right?” Billie says, and fuck, he sounds really fervent. Not just me he’s doing this for, then, and that thought actually gets me feeling a little smug. “I don’t think we have time for too much.”

I shake my head a bit, watching his progress until he’s level with my hips. Then he hitches himself over and straddles the leg nearest him so he’s pretty much directly behind me and I can’t see him. I look back around in front of me, eyes falling on the beer still in one hand, and I swig it nervously. The mouthful I have almost comes spraying right back out my mouth when I feel Billie flatten himself down and run his tongue all the way up the crack of my ass.

Holy fucking shit.

I feel his palm come to rest on my undamaged cheek, pulling it slightly to the side and spreading me the fuck open. Suddenly my heart is in my throat and I almost tell him to stop. This is too fucking much, it’s just--

My scalp goes tight again because Billie’s tongue is passing over my asshole, over and over and fucking over and I think I’m hyperventilating. I think his other hand is stroking at my inner thigh, but I can’t be sure because he’s also _definitely_ running his tongue along some really intimate skin and all the blood in my body is now racing towards my dick. I’m whimpering, for Christ’s sake.

That’s over as quickly as it started, and instead of his tongue I feel his fingers rubbing between my asscheeks, which makes me arch and then hiss because it stretches the burned skin. After a few moments it fades and I’m pushing up against Billie’s hand. I have no fucking idea what I want and what he’s doing feels good, but I want fucking better. I want the fucking _best_.

“Like that?” he asks with a hint of the same rasp in his voice that I hear when he’s onstage. Oh God. He kisses the small of my back when I answer positively, very positively thank you very much. “Want more?” he asks this time, the question completely fucking superfluous because he knows by the way I’m writhing around that yes, _please_. But he wants to hear an answer and I give him one with frantic nodding and a whine that eventually turns into a groaned ‘yeah’. He kisses all over the small of my back and then I hear him move. I twist around to look over my shoulder at what he’s doing – digging his hand into his pants pocket. He pulls out this tube, and I feel my stomach swoop.

“Is that the Neosporin?” That came out all timid but I’m not really focussing on that.

Billie smiles softly, and I can see amusement in his eyes even in the bad light. Graciously, he doesn’t call me a dumbass. “No, I brought something else.”

He takes a breath and repositions himself half alongside me, still straddling that one leg but stretched out so his face is close to mine. My head spins a little bit.  
“I can’t fuck you, Chris, but I can do the next best thing,” he murmurs in a way that’s almost matter-of-fact were it not for the fact that he sounds as horny as I feel. I want to kiss him really badly while he’s so close, but he’s still talking so I probably shouldn’t. “Relax and I’ll take your mind right off that burn, I promise.”

I watch him in silence as he unscrews the cap on that tube – lubricant, I’ve finally realised, God my mind is just fucking inside out from beer and pot and painkillers and now fucking horniness – and squeezes a blob out onto one finger. Suddenly I get the image of him doing the exact same fucking thing about two hours earlier, and it merges with this time until it feels like the guys are all watching us, all of them in this van and _watching_. I start breathing faster. Billie’s smoothing the lube over his fingertips. Holy fuck.

“Have you done this before?” Christ, you’d think I’d stop with the extremely stupid questions.

“Yeah,” Billie replies, and there’s this telling pause. What it’s telling I can’t really, um, tell, but I feel like there’s a whole other conversation that we could have right here. He doesn’t expand on it too much. “Not recently, though.” There’s a whole other conversation right there, too.

I feel like I’ve just pissed all over the atmosphere, so I say something that’s been niggling at me to lighten the mood.

“Right now I’m _really_ glad you’re not my Uncle Billie.”

The lines that had formed on Billie’s forehead smooth out and he laughs in his throat in a really dirty way that goes right to my dick. Woah. I feel his hand run up the inside of my leg and they spread wider of their own accord. _Woah_. “So am I,” he whispers. I shiver.

I’m actually glad that Billie isn’t going to fuck me because, at the rate I’m going, I’d be a three second wonder.

The hand on the inside of my thigh moves to where it had been before, spreading me open again.

“Relax,” he breathes right in my ear before kissing at my neck, kissing me like he’s trying to seduce me. No, wait - a second later it feels like he’s just trying to keep me from bolting, because I’ve just realised that my whole body is rigid, like some drunken co-ed that’s suddenly realised what she’s gotten herself into. That thought scares the living shit out of me and for a minute I almost do bolt. But fucking just like that, Billie gets why I’m all frozen and he stops.

“If you want me to stop, I will,” he says, his voice smooth enough to just float right into my head, into my bloodstream nice and easy. I look down at my hands while I listen to him speak. “If you want me to leave, or even if you only think you might want me to leave, I will.” There’s a little hiss of fabric, I think he’s looking over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I wish we had time to take this slower, but we don’t and I don’t know when we’re gonna get the chance to do this again.” The hand on my ass moves up to my shoulder, rubbing at the muscles there. “I like you, Chris. I’ve liked you for a while now. I want to make you feel good.”

“You’re the King of Punk Rock.” It tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. I actually gasp right after I say it like this is a soap opera. Fuck.

Billie gives a bemused little laugh after a fuckin’ horrible pause. “Well, I.” Another pause. I can’t look at him. Shit. Fuck. “Um, y’know, I don’t really get off on that kind of talk, but thank you...”

“You’re the King of Punk Rock,” I repeat, only this time my voice is all reluctant and defeated, and it goes along with how my body has just sagged. I think I’ve just fucked this up beyond all repair, so I might as well tell him exactly what’s been running through my head throughout this. I sigh. “And you’re gonna stick your fingers in my ass.”

Dead. Fucking. Silence.

I can feel his breath along my neck. I can feel his whole body along mine. I can feel his hard dick pressing against the top of my thigh. Say something. _Say something_.

“Yeah,” Billie says eventually, right back into that rasp, and finally I look at him again. He’s smiling, and the streetlight glow reflects in his eyes. They look darker than usual. “I’m the King of Punk Rock. And I’m going to fingerfuck you until you see stars. How does that sound?”

My eyes go dinner plate fucking wide and I shudder really hard. Those sentences are gonna stay with me until I die. I might get a wall plaque with ‘em on, I might etch ‘em into the back of my bass. Whatever choking terror seized me a minute or two ago is fucking gone, shot out of the sky by the dirtiest, most appealing statement of perverted intention that I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. It’d take a while for me to form a response to that, so Billie dives right in there through the stunned silence and kisses me, hard and deep and rough. And right in the middle of it all he manages to get out those four little words:

“ _If you want it._ “

I shiver again. If I was stood up, I’d be brought to my knees. “Fuck, just fucking do it, oh my _God_.”

Before I can think my next thought, Billie’s hand disappears from my shoulder and a wet fingertip is pressing against my asshole and Jesus _Christ!_

Not only does Billie have the ability to make you feel at ease real fast, but he can also have you make the strangest fucking noises, as I’m discovering right now. After a minute or so he’s doing exactly what he said he’d do; fingerfucking me and I’m seeing stars, I’m arching up against his hand and it kind of hurts but it’s nothing, absolutely fucking _nothing_ compared to how good it feels. He’s an expert, a genius, a fucking professor at this; he’s hitting something inside me that I didn’t even know was there and it’s making me writhe. The sounds that are coming out of my mouth are like something I heard on a porn video once.

I’m up on my elbows and knees before I even realise it, my shirt slipping down my back and Billie’s kissing it all over, and it feels fucking humid in this little van. In this little van where a King is making me see stars. Wow, that’s probably the cheesiest line I’ve ever thought of, I could probably use that in a song.

I hear the sound of a zipper and I twist my head to see...see Billie’s dick, in his hand, and he’s jerking off right in front of – well, behind me. My eyes move up his hunched body and I whimper when I reach his eyes – he’s looking at me, looking right at me with this heavy-lidded, sexy gaze, forehead shining a bit with sweat, and it seems to take a couple seconds for it to click that I’m looking at him, but when it does his head rocks to the side to rest against my shoulder and he _smiles_ , oh fuck me, this soft smile that’d make you fucking swoon, I swear to God. I could never describe it well enough to do it justice. Just...wow.

Amidst everything running through my brain and body and what’s spilling from my mouth I hear Billie speak.

“God, doesn’t that feel good?”

And there’s another one of those fucking threads of something else in his voice, like, maybe regret or something? It’s sad whatever it is, and the way he closes his eyes and nuzzles his head against my shoulder makes me think that he’d rather be the one in my position, with me or someone else, but I just can’t focus on that, not now, especially as he curls his fingers and lets out a moan that I can feel as well as hear.

“Oh God, oh God,” is all I can reply with, the words squeezing out of my throat all wet and desperate. “Billie, please, Billie Joe...” and I can’t possibly be asking for more because I couldn’t handle that, so what...am I...

I reach down and close my hand around my cock, watching Billie over my shoulder, watching the man who’s lost himself in this – eyes still closed, a little crease in between his eyebrows that tells me he’s concentrating on whatever fantasy he’s got in his head, nuzzling against me like a cat and keeping both of his hands working. He’s determined to accomplish something and I don’t think it’s just getting me off.

Honestly though, I couldn’t give a fuck. I’m higher than the fucking clouds right now.

I let out this long cry and a huge swell starts from the pit of my stomach. Billie scissors his fingers, curls them again and he keeps hitting that spot, over and over, keeps fucking hitting it and my skin feels tight, I’m too hot and he’s crying out with me, it sounds so good, _we_ sound so good, and even if the guys were standing outside, if they heard the commotion and are standing there listening, giggling, playing up to the camera...I don’t even care. I just don’t fucking care because I’m the one that Billie came to, regardless of his reasons. I’m the one he wanted. That’s right, fuckers, Billie Joe Armstrong is pressed up next to me and—

“Ah!” In the middle of all that thought and all that stimulation, it hits like a steamroller. I’m matching the pace of Billie’s hand with my own and I’m coming, my whole body shuddering against his with the added throbbing sensation of the burn that I’m just now becoming aware of again. Billie doesn’t take much longer, the sound of him making my mind tumble, and then we’re both sagging, supporting each other as much as leaning.

It’s a horrible feeling when he, y’know, pulls out; not just the actual feeling of it, but the realisation that that’s it, it’s done, for the first and last time probably. I feel a little embarrassed still kneeling there with my ass raised high, so I slump heavily over onto my side. What’s the first thing I do? Catch my burnt asscheek on the fucking side of the van.

“Ahh mother _fuck_ , that hurt!” I exclaim, twisting around to see if I ripped off the dressing and maybe some more skin. So much for the pleasant afterglow. Luckily it seems to be fine.

“Well, I tried,” I hear Billie say, sounding tired but amused. “I took your mind off it for a little while at least, right?” I turn back around and Billie’s lying on his side facing me, propped up on one elbow, a little light reflecting from his forehead thanks to the sheen of sweat. He’s buttoning up his fly with that same soft smile on his face as before. His hair is messier, a couple of curls against his forehead, and he’s partially illuminated by the outside streetlights.

Once again I’m struck dumb – in both senses of the word – by him. I nod slightly. The words _thank you_ come into my head quite some time before they emerge from my mouth. Billie returns the sentiment and I start to say something, I’m not even sure what; definitely a question, maybe about that smile, maybe about why he really came here, maybe just to make conversation. I don’t know because the thought hasn’t formed and Billie puts paid to whatever it might have been.

There’s a noise outside, sounds like a bottle smashing, and some laughter, which makes Billie sit up and listen intently. A few moments and he looks back to me. “I’d probably better go. Don’t wanna outstay my welcome or get ambushed by your bandmates. It’s one thing to get caught on camera sucking Mark’s nipple; I don’t think this’d come across so innocently.”

He laughs, I don’t. “You wouldn’t be outstaying your welcome, you know,” I say quietly, then kinda wish I hadn’t.

Billie picks up his beer. The thing somehow managed to not get knocked over after all that. “Yeah, I know.” He smiles a little and there’s an apology in there somewhere, I think. “That’s part of the problem.”

Reluctantly I have to agree. If Brendan and the guys came back here and found us, probably in a compromising position because I’d cajoled Billie into sticking around for a while longer, we’d both have some ‘splainin’ to do. Billie shifts closer, close enough to kiss.

“Hey, it was fun, though. Made you feel good.” This time he grins. “It sounded that way, anyway.”

I scowl jokingly and wipe the smugness from his expression by kissing him. Yeah, me kissing him this time, like, _really_ kissing him. I guess I’m over my nervous awe, huh?

“Don’t start being a stranger because of this, okay?” he says when he pulls back, rubbing between my shoulder blades then patting my shoulder. “I’d hate it if it got weird. And if you guys have got some weed going I’d totally like to get in on that.”

“We could have a Superman versus Spiderman epic battle for the world!” I exclaim with a laugh. Dude, that’s such a good fucking idea I feel like I should write it down.

Billie agrees with a big grin and clambers back over me, then the van door swoosh-clunks closed and it’s just me and the gnarly dingleberry again.

Suddenly I remember my own beer, and I spot where it’s gotten to. It’s on its side. I snatch it up quickly, as if it’ll make a difference, and now my fuckin’ pillow is wet. “Dammit,” I mumble.

So I’m not exactly heartbroken here, I wanna make that clear. I’m not some lovesick puppy tripping around after some rockstar. Like I said, I’ve got a girlfriend, I’m mostly straight. I also just had my first genuinely gay experience, and now I’m lying with my burnt ass in the back of a van. It feels a little surreal, a bit fuckin’ bizarre, especially considering who just popped my, uh, I don’t know...rainbow cherry? But unusual or not, I don’t think I could’ve done it with a better person. Fuck you, I know that was sentimental. I mean it, he took care of me and shit, and now I think I’ve got even more respect for him, whatever was going on in his head.

Seriously, fuck you.

I wipe my hand clean on a sock, one of Brandon’s, I realise with a smirk. _Billie Joe Armstrong just made me come_ , I think, and I smirk wider. Who the hell else on this tour can say that? Earlier on I thought about what I’d take away from this tour, specifically the second degree burns and a scar. Now I’ve got the second degree burns, a scar, and the memory of an orgasm induced by the most down-to-earth world famous rockstar I never imagined that I’d even meet. It’s pretty fuckin’ incredible. My ass doesn’t even hurt so bad anymore. What do you know, he did what he said he’d do.

I drink what’s left of my beer and laugh a little when I notice that Billie must’ve wiped his hands too before he left. On Brandon’s other sock.

That’s awesome, dude.


End file.
